Pashto
by TheMadKatter13
Summary: A come-on in a bar turns to something more when a rejection in an uncommon language is returned. Johnlock: First Meeting.


**Pashto**

by TheMadKatter13

SUMMARY~A come-on in a bar turns to something more when a rejection in an uncommon language is returned. Johnlock: First Meeting.

DISCLAIMER~The rights to Sherlock reside with the BBC (and probably a lot of other people that I'm too lazy to look up) and I receive no financial gain from the writing of this story.

AN~I don't remember where this idea came from but as soon as it did come to mind and I started writing, it made me think of the gorgeous AtlinMerrick and her brilliant story, 'The Day They Met'. So, this is for you, lovely Wendy.

Pashto

* * *

"Evenin', gorgeous. You look a bit posh to be slumming it in a place like this." The voice behind him was more kind than perverted, but it was still slurred. White male, late 30s to early 40s, accent from Scottish-descended London-based family, out with a group of mates by the laughter behind him. Sherlock had found one of the fastest ways to deter a strange from unwanted advances when he was on a case where time actually mattered was to respond to them in another language, and these four facts did not indicate a man well-traveled. Victims to this technique would blink at him, either thinking him crazy or realizing he was indeed speaking another language rather than rambling gibberish, but either way, they would move on. He had a wide range available in his memory banks and he chose one at random.

"_Yawaazi mi pregda_," he responded firmly ("Leave me alone") in Pashto. It was never a bad idea to be explicit, even when speaking in another language one was sure the listener doesn't understand.

"_Khushala shum pa li do di_," the man chuckled ("Pleased to meet you"), amused and a bit sarcastic. In Pashto. Sherlock, pleasantly surprised and intrigued by the stranger more than the case (a four anyway but it was the only one in a week and there was something about the affair he hadn't been about to pin down-female-to-male drag queen), turned to look at the stranger who was still standing right there, staring at him and grinning, a half-full glass of beer in his hand. There was an attractiveness to the stout soldier-his eyes flitted across the crowd of mates behind the man, taking in a face he knew well- stout army _doctor_, with his grown-slightly-out-of-regulation hair, clear blue eyes, and curious tilt of the head. As soon as he turned around though, those clear blue eyes widened and dilated, and it was clear the man hadn't even seen his face before complimenting him, but now that he had, he was infinitely more aroused. The doctor's posture opened up, offering, inviting. Sherlock, still categorizing facts and updating his original assessment in his mind palace, was still posed closed off, uninviting. After a moment, the man blinked and then nodded, once, shortly, a confirmation to himself, before tilting his head and raising his glass-a salute.

"All right then. _Kha sehat walary_," he farewelled ("Cheers") before he turned away, understanding in every line of his posture that his come-on had been declined and he was accepting the rejection gracefully and with a good nature. Without a thought, Sherlock reached out and grabbed the elbow not helping to balance the drink.

"A doctor who invaded Afghanistan? Intriguing combination of careers." The doctor's eyes lit in up in curiosity and soon Sherlock was explaining his deductions (_"-stance-", "-hair cut-", "-tan line-", "-Mike Stamford-", "-national language-"_) and the (ex) Captain John H Watson, MD was praising his deductions (_"Extraordinary!", "Brilliant!", "Fantastic!", "Amazing!"_).

And then Sherlock's deductive skills were being applied to the other pub-goers, and John was giggling into his beer and trying not to lean into Sherlock and Sherlock was not minding one bit when he didn't succeed.

And then John's mates had been gone for some time and the pub was closing and Baker Street was really not that far off.

And then they were on the move through streets and up seventeen steps and John wasn't trying to not lean into Sherlock any more and Sherlock was not trying to be subtle about welcoming it when they fell into a lush bed.

And _finally_ Sherlock was deducing again but with his eyes (_pupils dilating when he looks at John like_ that), and his tongue (_cock tip leaking pre-come just a little sweeter when he ran his tongue up_ that _vein_), and his fingers (_chest thrusting up encouragingly when he twists either nipple just a little too hard_), and his teeth (_clacking against John's when the doctor responds to animalistic kisses with aggressive ones of his own_), and his lips (_pursing around hip bones eager to take his affections_), and his ears (_the way John would cry out or moan when he looked at him like_ that _when he licks_ there _like_ that _or when he twists_ that there _or when he bites_ that spot _just hard enough to leave a mark_), and his cock (_that tight, wet hole clutching at him with every out-pull and sucking him back in with every thrust_).

And John was praising again (_"Fuck!", "Harder!", "Fucking gorgeous...", "Utterly brilliant...", "Again!", "Voice like sex...", "Oh god,_ please_Sherlock!", "So thick...", "Yes yes yes yes YES!", "I'm so lucky...", "Oh there again! Right there!", "You're perfect...", "Please touch me!", "Musician's fingers...", "I'm going to come!"_), and John coming again and John talking to him again and John John John John _John_.

Doctor John Watson who wasn't in his bed the next morning because he was fixing breakfast and tea and smiling at him and looking so bright with the morning sun making a halo of his ashen blond hair. Captain John Watson who took his near-frantic kisses against the worktop before turning him and pinning him and demanding that he be patient and eat first so that they could have energy for _more_.

Blogger John Watson who came home with him one night and never really left.

He could never thank Mycroft in words for the gift he'd unwittingly provided by forcing Sherlock to that case in Afghanistan three years ago, but he was a bit less cruel to his brother than he normally would have been when the busy-body showed up in their flat a week later with an unnecessary "Congratulations". He didn't even comment with body language when John offered Mycroft a tea cake and the man accepted. It made his brother delightfully wary, for several weeks, the man unsure to the cause of his (for him) niceties, and John kept assisting in the most adorably oblivious ways. Sherlock made sure to thank his doctor more directly for unintentionally playing along, and though he often had his blogger screaming himself hoarse, it was certainly never in objection.

* * *

**Well, short little piece, but I hope everyone, especially dear Miss Atlin (if you read it), liked it. One of my less-smutty pieces but no less fun. Subscribe to my author tumblr (TheMadKatter13-fanfiction) for updates on my works!**


End file.
